The Fate of the Muse - By Derrolyn Anderson Page 0,46

Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she broke free of the crowd to join me.

“Oh my God! I was so scared I thought I was gonna puke and fall flat on my face! That was so sick! You should see the apartment! Come and meet my roomies– they were in the show too!”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a screened off dressing area where a dozen gazelle-like girls were packing bags, removing their theatrical makeup and smoking cigarettes. Some of them scrutinized Shayla with thinly veiled envy, mimicking her casual stance, trying to suss out exactly what constituted her appeal.

Others glared at her with open hostility, seeing Shayla as an interloper, and her stunning debut as a threat to their own status. She stared boldly back at them, sending a little territorial surfer stink-eye of her own in their direction. I chuckled to myself, thinking that Shayla’s wily street-smarts would probably go a long way in the cut-throat world of fashion.

We approached a couple of girls keeping to themselves who smiled broadly when they saw her. Unlike Shayla, they seemed intimidated by the other girls, and I realized that they were the fellow newbies.

“Marina, this is Greta and Irina,” Shayla gestured to each girl in turn. They smiled sweetly and nodded. “They don’t speak much English, but Greta speaks French real good. We’re going to go clubbing tonight… You should come out with us!”

“Uh, I don’t know,” I said, “Evie might have plans.” I peeked around the screen and scanned the crowd, spotting her across the room. She was speaking to a richly dressed blonde woman that stood facing away from me. There was something in Evie’s stance that caught my eye, a rare tension. I was a little surprised to see Evie thrown off kilter; she actually looked nervous.

The blonde turned to stare directly at me. When our eyes locked I knew.

“Pleeease?” Shayla asked coyly. Nightclubbing was the last thing on my mind at the moment.

Evie was talking to one of them. One of us… a hybrid. All at once the reality of what the council meeting really meant crashed down on me. There was no going back now. I suppose I’d been in denial up until I saw her, because for a minute I forgot to breathe. When I recovered, I sucked in a sharp breath.

Shayla eyes followed mine, “Who’s that with Evie?” she asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know, probably some friend of hers.”

It was funny, really, for the woman could easily pass for your garden variety fashionista. She seemed ageless, but if I had to guess I would have placed her somewhere in her thirties. Like so many of the woman who followed fashion, she was impeccably groomed, but there was something more going on– something intangible. There was an aura about her; she was cloaked in a mantle of success and unquestioned power.

I turned away from them, a little taken aback. I always thought it was just Evie.

“Greta says she knows this really awesome club where they have like, fire-dancers and magicians and stuff!”

“It sounds like fun, but I think Evie might… have dinner reservations,” I wished that was all it was. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, at least come check out my shack!” Shayla told me about her new apartment, going into detail about how weird everything was. Just as she began to describe the bidet in detail, Evie and Jacques thankfully interrupted us.

“Bravo!” said Jacques, stretching up to kiss both of Shayla’s cheeks. “C’est magnifique! Come now, I have a client that is dying to meet you!” He spirited Shayla away, leaving us standing with her roommates. They stared at Evie, stunned speechless.

“Greta, Irina, this is my Aunt Evie,” I said.

“B-b-bonjour,” Greta stammered, impressed almost beyond words. She elbowed Irina, “La belle Evelyn Pond!”

Evie smiled kindly at them, used to being recognized in the fashion world. She took my arm and murmured in my ear, “May I have a word with you in private?”

I followed her to an uncrowded corner where she told me that our meeting with the council was scheduled for the next night, immediately following Shayla’s second runway show. My knees felt weak, and the last thing I wanted to do was go out dancing. Evie suggested that we go back to the hotel to have a quiet room-service dinner and go over our story again.

“That sounds good,” I said, relieved to have a chance to rehearse. “But I feel bad, because Shayla wants